I used to think the worst thing about turning fifteen would be the paperwork.
Forms. Signatures. Consent agreements written in fonts so small they were clearly hostile to minors. The kind of documents designed to remind you that adulthood wasn't freedom—it was liability, but with nicer shoes.
I was wrong.
Though, to be fair, the paperwork was still impressively terrible.
The Human Aptitude & Regulation Bureau—HARB, officially—rose out of the city like a polite accusation. Tall, white, rectangular, and aggressively symmetrical. It didn't loom. Looming implied drama. HARB didn't do drama. It did inevitability.
The building had been there for decades, ever since the Old Guard finished stabilizing Earth's mana flow and collectively decided humanity needed structure more than panic. Fifty years later, it still looked brand new. I'd been told that was intentional. The materials regenerated minor damage automatically.
No cracks.
No stains.
No sense of age.
Like it had never made a mistake in its life.
"Order encourages compliance," my civics teacher liked to say.
I hated that sentence. It sounded like something order would whisper while adjusting your chair so you couldn't quite get comfortable.
I stood at the base of the steps with my parents, clutching my registration folder like it might suddenly grow legs and try to flee the country.
"Deep breaths," Mom said, squeezing my shoulder. "This is just a formality."
That was a lie.
But a well-intentioned one. The kind parents were legally required to tell.
Dad nodded, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. "You'll be fine, Ethan. Most people are."
Most people.
That phrase had carried humanity through the last half-century. Most rifts were contained. Most curses were mild. Most gifts were boring. Most people lived normal lives with slightly improved infrastructure and the occasional magical inconvenience, like traffic lights flickering when someone sneezed too hard.
I planned to be one of them.
We joined the slow-moving line of teenagers and families filtering into the main atrium. The space was enormous—three floors of open air, natural light pouring through reinforced glass panels etched with subtle stabilization runes. Everything smelled faintly of disinfectant and something else I couldn't quite identify.
Clean, but not sterile.
Calm, but not comforting.
Like a place that really wanted you to relax, but only in very specific, approved ways.
Kids my age stood in clusters, pretending not to be nervous.
Some joked too loudly, the kind of laughter that dared the universe to prove them wrong. Others stared at their phones like they were hoping to phase through the screen and escape into literally any other situation. A few were visibly excited, bouncing on their heels, whispering about rankings and future careers.
Hunters.
Military tracks.
High administration elites.
Statistically, they were a minority. Practically, they made enough noise to feel like the default setting.
I shifted my weight and adjusted the straps of my backpack.
"Remember," Mom said softly, leaning in, "today is only the curse. You have time."
I nodded.
Everyone knew the system.
At fifteen, you received your curse—the limitation, the flaw, the price of admission. Then you lived with it for two years. Learned your boundaries. Built coping mechanisms. Figured out which accommodations to request without sounding dramatic.
At seventeen, you received your gift.
Power without preparation had nearly ended the world once. The Old Guard had been very clear about not repeating that experience. Apparently, rewriting reality before puberty was bad for long-term stability.
So: curse first. Gift later.
Most curses were minor. That was the point. The system wasn't designed to break people—it was meant to shape them. A gentle nudge here. A closed door there. Enough friction to keep the world from sliding off the rails.
I'd seen the statistics in school.
Level I curses made up nearly sixty percent of assignments. Things like mild fatigue during certain weather patterns, limited color perception, or reflex delays so minor they only affected handwriting and competitive gaming.
Level II accounted for another thirty percent. Still manageable. Annoying, sure—but the kind of annoying you could complain about at parties.
Level III was where things started getting serious. Careers narrowed. Paths specialized. People adapted or pivoted.
Level IV and V?
Rare.
Theoretical.
The kind of thing you learned about for exams and then immediately forgot, because it wasn't supposed to be relevant to you.
I hadn't thought about them much.
The atrium funneled us toward a set of wide corridors marked with softly glowing signage. Staff members in neutral gray uniforms guided families with practiced efficiency. No shouting. No urgency. Everything moved at the pace of inevitability.
Eventually, parents were stopped at a checkpoint.
"Families wait here," a woman said kindly. "Candidates only beyond this point."
Mom hugged me. Tight. Longer than strictly necessary.
"Text us when you're done," she said.
Dad clapped my shoulder. "Normal curse," he said. "Boring gift later. That's the dream."
I smiled. A real one.
"I'll aim for boring," I said. "Mild inconvenience, beige future."
They let me go.
The inner corridors were quieter. Carpeted floors muffled footsteps. The lighting adjusted automatically to maintain optimal comfort levels. I'd read about it in a brochure once—how HARB's design minimized stress responses in developing minds.
It was working.
Mostly.
I was led into a small waiting area with about a dozen other kids. No parents. No windows. Just chairs arranged in neat rows and a large screen on the far wall displaying neutral scenery.
Forests.
Oceans.
Nothing magical.
Apparently, magic was bad for nerves.
A boy across from me tapped his foot like it owed him money. A girl nearby whispered into a recording device—probably vlogging—until a staff member glanced her way and she immediately pretended to be fascinated by the carpet.
We waited.
One by one, names were called.
People stood, disappeared through a door, and returned anywhere from five to fifteen minutes later. Some looked relieved. Some thoughtful. A few very quiet.
No one cried.
That felt like a good sign.
I checked the time on my phone for what I told myself was the last time when the screen chimed softly.
"Ethan Walker," a voice said. "Sorting Room Three."
That was me.
I stood, slung my backpack over one shoulder, and followed the illuminated path down the corridor.
Sorting Room Three was… underwhelming.
I'd expected something more dramatic. Maybe a circular chamber. Ancient symbols. A glowing orb that judged your soul and maybe your fashion sense.
Instead, it looked like a medical office that had tried very hard not to feel like one.
White walls. Soft blue accents. A single reclining chair in the center. A transparent screen floating just above eye level. No visible wires. No visible magic.
The door slid shut behind me with a quiet hiss.
"Good morning, Ethan Walker," a pleasant voice said.
The screen flickered to life, displaying a simple interface and a stylized icon that vaguely resembled a human head made of lines and dots.
"I am a Cognitive Assessment Assistant," it continued. "This session will identify your assigned curse. The process is non-invasive, painless, and statistically safe."
"Statistically," I repeated.
"Correct," the assistant said.
That didn't help.
I sighed and sat in the chair.
"Please relax," it said. "The scan will begin shortly."
The chair adjusted automatically, supporting my neck and lower back. A faint hum filled the room as the system activated. Thin lines of light traced patterns in the air—not touching me, but close enough to make my skin prickle.
I focused on breathing.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
This was normal. Millions of people had done this before me. Most of them went on to live ordinary lives with slightly inconvenient quirks, like always dropping pens or being really bad at karaoke.
The hum deepened.
The lights shifted.
The assistant went quiet.
That… wasn't normal.
At least, I didn't think it was.
I opened my eyes and frowned. "Uh. Is it supposed to pause like that?"
"Processing," the assistant replied after a moment. "Please remain calm."
That sentence had never once made anyone calmer.
The air felt different.
Not heavier—sharper. Like the edges of things had been turned up. The hum pressed against my ears, and the light from the screen seemed brighter, despite not changing at all.
I swallowed.
The pause stretched.
Then the screen updated.
— CURSE IDENTIFICATION COMPLETE —
"Okay," I muttered. "That's good."
The assistant's icon shifted subtly, lines rearranging in a way that suggested hesitation.
"Ethan Walker," it said, "your assigned curse classification is: Ultra-Sensitivity."
I stared at the words.
Then at the assistant.
Then back at the words.
"Could you say that again?" I asked. "Slower. Maybe with a brochure."
"Ultra-Sensitivity," the assistant repeated. "A broad-spectrum sensory amplification affecting physical, cognitive, and environmental perception."
I blinked.
The hum was louder.
Or maybe it wasn't.
Maybe I was.
"That sounds," I said carefully, "less minor than average."
The assistant did not respond to humor.
"Your curse has been classified as Level IV."
Oh.
That was… bad.
I'd seen the charts. Posters. Mandatory school modules with friendly mascots explaining why you should support your Level IV friends and not stare.
Level IV was the red zone.
Not because it was fatal—but because it reshaped lives whether you wanted it to or not.
Special monitoring. Career restrictions. Expectations.
And, crucially, gifts.
The Balance Law was clear.
A heavy curse demanded a heavy counterweight.
My heart started beating faster.
"That's… high," I said.
"Yes," the assistant agreed.
I laughed nervously. "But that means my gift will be—"
The screen flickered.
Once.
Twice.
A new line appeared.
— AUTOMATED FLAG TRIGGERED —
The temperature dropped by a fraction of a degree.
I felt it.
Every tiny change. The shift in air pressure. The vibration in the walls. The distant hum of machinery far above.
My head started to ache.
"Is that," I asked, "a normal part of the process?"
"Not necessarily," the assistant replied.
I swallowed. "What does 'flagged' mean?"
"It indicates that your curse classification exceeds standard civilian parameters," the assistant said. "Individuals with Level III and above curses are automatically reviewed for enhanced monitoring."
"That's… reassuring," I said weakly.
"Please remain seated," the assistant continued. "Further evaluation is in progress."
The chair locked with a soft click.
I froze.
"Hey," I said. "It didn't do that for the last guy."
"Safety protocol," the assistant replied.
"Whose safety?"
No answer.
Somewhere far above the city, far beyond public access, a system that hadn't been updated in decades adjusted a probability curve by a fraction of a percent.
It did not understand why.
Back in the Sorting Room, my breathing was shallow.
Okay. Think.
Ultra-sensitivity explained the headache. The sharpness. The way everything felt like too much. It wasn't lethal. People lived with sensory disorders all the time.
I could wear sunglasses. Noise filters. Live very quietly. Possibly in a cave.
"I can manage this," I said, mostly to myself.
"Can you quantify it?" I asked aloud. "The sensitivity, I mean."
"Yes," the assistant said. "Your sensory input threshold has been reduced by approximately seventy-two percent."
"…That sounds like a lot."
"It is significant," the assistant agreed.
I laughed. Short. A little hysterical.
"Okay. Fine. Two years. I adapt. Then I get my gift. Balance restored."
The assistant paused.
I was starting to hate that.
"There is," it said slowly, "an irregularity in your projected balance profile."
My stomach dropped.
"Irregular how?"
"Your curse severity does not align with standard gift probability distributions."
"That's… bad, right?"
"It is unusual," the assistant said. "Historically, such cases are rare."
"How rare?"
"Please remain calm."
"I am calm," I lied.
The lights were too bright. The ventilation sounded like it was screaming directly into my ears.
"Look," I said, pressing my palms into my thighs. "I'm just a normal guy. I don't need anything flashy. Just… something that balances this out."
"Your request has been noted," the assistant said.
The door remained locked.
Outside, I could hear footsteps. Quicker now.
"Ethan Walker," the assistant said at last, "your curse assignment has been finalized. Further consultation will be scheduled."
"When?" I asked.
"Immediately following this session."
The screen dimmed.
The hum faded.
The chair unlocked.
I stood, legs unsteady.
"Am I in trouble?" I asked.
"No," the assistant replied.
That wasn't comforting.
The door slid open.
Two staff members waited outside, both wearing smiles that had been professionally approved.
"Ethan?" one of them said gently. "Please come with us."
I glanced back at the Sorting Room. At the chair. The quiet.
"I'm still normal," I said, mostly to myself.
The staff member smiled.
"Of course you are," she said. "This is just a precaution."
I stepped into the corridor.
The door closed behind me with a soft, final click.
Somewhere deep within the system that governed humanity's balance, a variable had been misread.
And the world, quietly and politely, failed to notice.